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There was a sharp blow to the chest, throwing him off balance, causing him to fly straight into the wall behind. A kick to the groin sent him bending over in agony withering in pain. His body fell over, his face, then, was being slammed into the cold hard marble stone below him. He could feel the back of his head pulsating as it bled. He could see nothing but he could still hear his mother's shrill screams in the echoing mansion.

"LUCIUS! STOP! HE'S YOUR SON!"

Then there was a terrible crash; and he could feel someone step over him; treading his fingers as they passed. Then heavy smell of firewhisky and tobacco smoke left the room, meaning his father had fled.

Nothing but silence and a woman's quiet desperate cries were all that was left.

And Draco Malfoy, a boy of fourteen, lay on the floor beaten, bloodied, but not yet dead.

It seemed as though hours or even days passed as he lay there bleeding, each jagged breath more painful then the last. He had to get somewhere safe where his father could not find him. He must leave immediately. He looked up wearily and was shocked to see his mother not there. An empty chair stood where he thought she would be, he couldn't believe she left him there to bleed, to die.

As he slowly lifted his trembling, aching body from the ground, leaving a puddle of blood behind him, he limped over to the nearest stool setting himself down. Taking sharp intakes of breath from the excruciating pain he tried thinking of a logical solution to his problems.

He had to think, who would take him in until school began? He needed to stay somewhere safe. Somewhere his father could not find him... Pansy Parkinson's? No. Her parents, although not death eaters, were very friendly with his father. Blaise Zabini? No. Same problem.

Crabbe, Goyle? No. Their parents were death eaters.

No one from slytherin could help. They were all probably in dept to his father somehow.

'Think' he thought to himself.

What about a Ravenclaw?

Cho Chang? Potter's love pet would never help him.

Diggory? No, dead.

Who? Who would help him, then?

Potter...? No! Of course not, potter would rather see him die.

Weasley? His father would never allow a Malfoy into their home...

Granger? No. That disgusting mudblood wouldn't dare allow him to set foot into her house, although, she was a kind 'caring' person after all. She would let him in best of all his father would never expect it. It was perfect.. But, would he sink that low? Could he sink that low?

Suddenly a sharp pain in his chest arose making it more difficult to think.

He was not only asking for her help, he was also putting himself in a vulnerable position.

Swallowing a large amount of saliva which had found it's way to his throat, he shook his head. He had to get somewhere safe. And her house was all he had.

But how to get there?

He had once overheard Granger telling Potter and Weasley her address, What was it?

What was that blasted address?

The sharp pain came back. Clenching his fists he thought aloud;

"Wallaby? No. Wondo... Willow! That was it, willow something or other...Willow... dro, drive!

1950 Willow drive!"

That was it!"

Although he was dizzy and feint from the blood loss; he knew he had to get there somehow. He stood, sourly pressing only on his right foot for his left seemed to be broken. Hopping slowly over to his school trunk where his broom lay, he wiped his brow and rummaged through.

Grabbing only a cloak to keep himself warm, he wiped the blood from his face and moved towards the door. He had to fly directly to Hermione Granger's home, it was his last hope for survival.

Stepping outside he could feel cold December air hitting his pale beaten face; numbing it completely. Licking his already chapped lips he gingerly positioned himself on the broom and pushed himself off weakly. The broom wobbled slightly but rose as it usually did and lifted him farther off the ground towards the blackened sky.

And as he moved rhythmically with his broom flying higher and higher things suddenly felt right. His broken and aching bruises eased, and he felt as though he belonged up there on that broomstick. And as childish as it sounded to him, he thought that things would be alright as long as he got to Hermione's. Things would be O.K.

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December twenty fourth,

Hermione Granger sat huddled on her favorite rocking chair beside a small glittering fire; alone. Her parents were away at a cabin having a lovely Christmas dinner with approximately fifty of their closest friends and colleagues. Hermione didn't mind though, for she was able to spend this time alone, which she enjoyed very much.

Gripping a steaming mug of hot cocoa which sat beside her, she continued to read a very romantic muggle novel that she had received for Christmas. Taking another sip, she hit a very exciting chapter where the main character, Antonio, finally declared his love to Isabelle; the daughter of his father's arch nemesis.

"Ooooh" She squealed silently to herself in anticipation as Antonio gripped the young woman leaning in for a -

'KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!'

Distracted from her book Hermione looked over her shoulder to the front door. She was slightley shocked; who would visit her 10:30 at night on Christmas eve? She considered the possibilities as she laid the book down on the small coffee table.

Standing up she crept over to the door, her long sweatpants dragging behind her.

"hello?" she called; hoping it was someone she knew... silence.
"Hellooo?" She heard nothing and turned back around, slightly disgruntled that her book was interrupted.

Suddenly a weak 'knock' issued from the door.

Glancing back around she walked over and decided to look outside, but as she pulled back the wooden object; the sight before her she was unprepared to see.

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